


don't look to a stranger

by fakelight



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Multi, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-02-12 18:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12966036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakelight/pseuds/fakelight
Summary: As Mike and Will walk back to the car, Nancy looks over at Jonathan. “You're sure you want to do this?” she asks, again.Jonathan breathes out, resolute. “Let’s go get drunk with Steve Harrington.”





	1. if you need a friend

There’s a bottle of vodka rattling around the trunk of Jonathan’s car.

Nancy made sure it was at least cushioned by a blanket, in case of any sharp turns, but it’s been back there for over a month.

“We should drink that,” she says, prompted by a clunk on the car ride home from the Snow Ball, Mike and Will uncharacteristically silent in the back seat, Mike staring dreamily out the window, Will’s eyes downcast. About par for the course for most middle school dances, Nancy thinks. (At least in her experience. She can’t remember seeing Jonathan at any of theirs.)

“What?” Jonathan asks, over the sounds of what Nancy’s pretty sure is Joy Division streaming out of the radio.

Another clunk.

Nancy flicks her eyes toward the back of the car. “That.”  _The vodka_ , she mouths. “We should, you know. Put it to good use.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Mike asks. Less annoying little brother, more genuinely curious. Seeing Eleven, or Jane, as she’s insisting on being called now, must have actually done some good. (Nancy sacrificed her favorite Wet n Wild eyeshadow to the cause, but seeing Mike’s face when she walked in made it all worth it.)

“Nothing,” Nancy says, Jonathan echoing her a beat later.

“Do you seriously have a shotgun in the back of the car?”

“No!” Nancy scoffs, with mock outrage. “I keep that in my purse.”

It’s a testament to how much Mike has been affected by the evening that he doesn’t react as he normally would; meaning that instead of a smack from behind her, Nancy only receives a “Ha ha,” followed by a kick to the back of her seat.

“Don’t ruin my car,” Jonathan admonishes him mildly, eyes on the rearview mirror. Nancy can see the crease in his brow as he takes in Will’s quiet demeanor, and she reaches over, pulling his hand into hers. (It’s still a new enough thing for her that she feels a thrill every time she does it. She can hold his hand. They can drive around together. They belong to each other.)

She twists her mouth into a smile, trying to reassure him with a tight squeeze that Will is fine, or at the very least, that the danger he’s in is not of the actual life-or-death, Upside Down, shadow monster kind, but rather garden variety middle school peril. Who danced with who. During what songs.

He gives her a weak smile in return, then looks up into the rearview again. “I need to get some gas, do you guys want anything?”

“Three Musketeers,” both Mike and Will say as one, and then they’re absolutely falling over with laughter in the back seat.

Nancy looks back, frowning. “Why is that funny?”

The boys only laugh harder, as Jonathan pulls into the gas station. “Three Musketeers, got it. Do you want anything?” he asks her, to which Nancy shakes her head. The car rocks a little as the door slams behind him, and Nancy’s left with the slowly petering out giggles coming from behind her.

Nancy belatedly remembers the twenty dollar bill shoved into her hand by her mother on the way out the door for this exact purpose, and jumps out of the car, throwing a “Stay here,” over her shoulder.

Only to almost get run over by a vaguely familiar maroon BMW, which screeches to a halt just a foot from her.

“Sorry!” Nancy cries, putting her hands up in apology, and then, “Steve?”

Steve Harrington is looking at her through the windshield from under his hair, one hand extended out protectively toward someone in the front seat. Dustin.

“Nancy?”

Nancy feels that this may have been inevitable, that of course she was going to almost get run over by her ex-boyfriend and the boy she danced with as she ran to catch up with her current boyfriend outside a gas station in the middle of the night.

(She wonders what life is like outside of small towns in Indiana. Simpler, probably.)

“Holy shit, Nance, are you okay?” Steve is in front of her, somehow. She didn’t even see him get out of the car.

“No, that was my fault, sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Steve?” Jonathan’s running toward them.

“He almost ran me over,” Nancy tries to explain, and Jonathan pulls up as he reaches them, looking wary.

“Not on purpose, Jesus, she jumped out in front of me.”

“Jonathan?”

“Nancy?”

Now Dustin’s out of the car. And Mike and Will. Nancy wonders if she’ll ever hang out with other people in her entire life.

“I’m fine,” Nancy says to their little group, “everyone’s fine. It’s going to take a lot more than Steve to kill me.” Considering what they’ve gone through and survived, it’s probably true.

Steve frowns at her. “Uh, thanks?”

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Mike asks.

“Getting gas,” Dustin drawls, the  _obviously_  left unsaid.

“I’m gonna go finish paying,” Jonathan says haltingly, backing away. Nancy follows him, slipping her hand into his again, leaving the boys bickering over how gas isn’t the only thing you can get at a gas station.

“ _Are_  you okay?” Jonathan asks her once they’re inside.

Nancy laughs. “I can’t believe after everything, monsters, mind . . . whatevers, Steve almost takes me out with Dustin in the passenger seat. But yeah,” she says, squeezing his hand once more. “I’m fine. And I have something for you. Well, from my mom. She feels bad that you keep driving me places.”

“She knows that’s part of it, right? The whole, I’m dating your daughter thing,” he says, smiling fondly down at her.

 _I love you_ , she thinks. (She hasn’t said it yet. She’s not sure why.)

“Well, you had to deal with Mike tonight, so,” Nancy says instead, throwing the twenty on the counter, “on four, please.”

 

 

 

Steve’s just pulling his car up next to the pump when she comes back outside, and Nancy wonders if a near-death experience is enough to get them over whatever lingering awkwardness that still lies between them. (They didn’t break up so much as fall apart, but it’s hard, going from boyfriend-and-girlfriend to barely speaking. She misses him, almost in the way she’d missed Jonathan, before. He was there, and now he’s not.)

“Hey,” he says, stopping her, hanging off the open door. “I  _am_  sorry.” 

“It’s fine. All my fault,” she replies, shaking her head, walking over and leaning against the front of the car she’d spent so many mornings in. (Evenings, too.) “How . . . how are you?” Simple. She can do this.

“Oh, you know me, Nance,” he tosses off, running a hand through his hair, a careless grin on his face. “It’s tough work, chauffeuring these little shits around.”

“I heard that,” Dustin calls over to them.

“We can take Dustin home, if um, you need to get somewhere.” Nancy runs down the list of parties happening tonight in her head, but her invites have been thin on the ground as of late. (Not that she minds. She doesn’t want to give Bauman too much credit, but after some careful self-examination, one of the things she’s realized is that standing next to Steve while he had conversations she wasn’t interested in wasn’t really how she wanted to spend her Saturday nights.)

Steve makes a face. “Nah, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are in Vail, so. Taking advantage of having the house to myself.”

“Shotgunning?” Nancy realizes she has to clarify which kind, which probably says something about her and the life she leads. “Beers, that is.”

“It’s not quite as fun when no one’s there to shout  _chug_  at you,” Steve says, a little sarcastic.

Nancy grimaces. “Yeah, well.” She looks around, searching the area for a response, but the only thing she finds is Jonathan, hanging the nozzle back on the pump. He nods at them.

Steve waves back.

Off Nancy’s look, he shrugs. “What?”

“Um,” Nancy says, nonplussed.

“He’s not the worst guy. You’ve got good taste, Nance. Present company not excluded.”

Nancy smiles to herself, ducking her head to hide it, because he isn’t wrong, on any count. She glances back up.

For a brief second, so quick she might be imagining it, Steve’s carefree attitude slips, and the only thing on his face is naked emotion. His eyes flick to hers, and Nancy can almost physically feel the loneliness within him, and then it’s gone, the bright, devil-may-care smile back once more.

Nancy flinches, and with it, the awkwardness comes rushing back. She stammers for a second, trying to remember the thread of the conversation, and when she speaks again there’s a note of concern in her voice she wishes wasn’t there. “So, how are you doing?”

“You already asked me that,” Steve says, wincing.

“Right.” She knows there’s no way of saving this, figuring it’s best to extricate herself from the situation and try again next time. “So, I’d better,” she says, gesturing vaguely back toward Jonathan, toward Mike and Will.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Steve looks almost relieved. “See you around, Nance.”

Nancy can’t help but feel like instead of fixing things, she’s only made them worse.

 

 

 

“Should I ask?” Jonathan says, unconcerned, once Nancy’s settled herself back into the front seat.

She shakes her head. “I just wanted to, I dunno, see how he was doing. We never really . . . cleared the air, I guess. Everything was just so, well, you know.”

Jonathan doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. He knows.

“He also said you weren’t the worst.”

“Wow.”

Nancy rolls her eyes at him. “It’s just. We’re all mixed up in this weird  _thing_  together. Every time the world’s about to end, we’re all at your house, trying to stop it. It’d be nice if we could not feel like we’re pulling teeth every time we see each other.”

“That might just be you,” Jonathan points out. “Steve and I, we’re . . . fine.”

Nancy can hear the lie. “Are you?”

“We’ve . . . talked,” Jonathan says, evasively. “We parked next to each other last week.”

“I don’t think ‘Morning, Harrington’ counts as  _talking_.”

“Hey,” Jonathan scoffs, affronted. “We’re on a first name basis now. I said Steve.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows at him, then sighs. “I just . . . I think he’s lonely.”

Jonathan gives her a complicated look, but all he says is, “That’s not your fault.” He’s wrong, because it  _is_ , technically, her fault, but Nancy lets it slide.

“I just wanted things to be less awkward. But it looks like that isn’t going to change anytime soon,” she concludes with a huff, rolling down the window so she can scream for Mike to get his ass back in the car.

The only problem being that when she goes to stick her head out said window, Steve Harrington’s face is already in it.

“Holy shit,” Nancy yelps, her heart racing. (At least now they’re even on scaring each other to death.) “Sorry,” she says preemptively, hoping he hadn’t heard her.

“Is everything okay?” Jonathan asks Steve, his gaze focusing past him to where the boys are still arguing.

“No, nothing’s wrong—it’s just,” Steve stutters, “that was seriously awkward, right?” Nancy flushes at the confirmation of his overhearing, but Steve doesn’t wait for her to confirm that yes, it was incredibly awkward. “And, that sucks. Because I think you two might be the only friends older than thirteen I have left. And, uh, I’m not really sure on the friends part.”

Nancy doesn’t know how to respond to that, but she knows she has to say something. “Steve—”

“Anyway, um,” Steve continues, cutting her off, his eyes fixed somewhere on the seat in between them, “do you guys want to . . . hang out?”

Nancy blinks, her response lost, her mouth hanging open.

“It’s just, I’ve got the house to myself, like I said to Nance, and I dunno, maybe you guys wanted to . . . talk? Or just, whatever? I have beer? We don’t have to drink beer, I don’t know how you feel about beer, I mean, I know how Nancy feels, but uh. Yeah.”

The empty silence that follows Steve’s rushed statement reminds Nancy of the Upside Down, in that it might legitimately kill them if they stay in it for too long.

Jonathan comes to the rescue. “We’ve got a bottle of vodka in the trunk.” An offering.

Steve beams at him. “Okay,  _now_  we’re talking.”

Nancy’s mouth is still open, and she shuts it with a snap, still trying to reconcile what’s happened in the last few seconds, glancing between the two boys on either side of her, first to Steve, who’s looking at her expectantly, to Jonathan, who, despite having offered up their vodka (which she had vague plans for drinking tonight anyway), Nancy can’t quite believe is up for this.

“Come on, Nance, your boyfriend’s in. We can trade war stories. We can argue over who owns my bat.”

Jonathan actually smiles, and Nancy thinks this might not be the worst idea Steve’s ever had.

“Okay,” Nancy says, throwing caution to the wind. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The look of relief on Steve’s face convinces Nancy that this is a good idea, that they can get through this. Not two and one, or even individuals. They can be three people who took down a monster together once more.

“So. All of us. Your house,” Nancy confirms.

“Yeah, just gotta drop this shithead off first,” Steve says, with affection.

“Stop talking about me like I can’t hear you, I can hear you!” Dustin screams, exasperated. Steve pulls his head out of the window to extend a pointed finger and a death glare toward him.

Nancy takes advantage of his momentary distraction to whisper, “Are you sure? We can still back out, if you want.”

Jonathan tilts his head toward her. “You want to go.”

“That’s not—”

“And who knows. We’re in a weird thing. Maybe I want to move past ‘Morning, Harrington.’”

“I knew it,” Nancy hisses, and then Steve’s attention is back on them.

“So yeah, ditch the kids, and I’ll see you guys at my place? Nancy knows how to get there.”

“Yeah. I know.” She doesn’t mention that Jonathan does too, because that would take them to a completely different level of awkward. One they might not be able to return from. Steve, if he's thinking it, doesn't say anything. Neither does Jonathan.

“Awesome.” Steve flashes another grin, and then shouts, “Henderson! Let’s go!”

“All right, Jesus, I’m coming!” Dustin shouts back, and then Steve’s grabbing him by the back of the collar and pulling him away.

As Mike and Will walk back to the car, Nancy looks over at Jonathan. “You're sure you want to do this?” she asks, again.

Jonathan breathes out, resolute. “Let’s go get drunk with Steve Harrington.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to the open bottle of champagne I left in my car the summer of my senior year of high school that exploded while my parents were driving! Don’t leave alcohol in your trunk, teens.


	2. i'm sorry but i'm just thinking of the right words to say

“This is . . . really fucking weird.”

Jonathan’s looking up at Steve’s like it’s a haunted house, not the slightly impersonal magazine photoshoot of a home Nancy knows it to be.

“You’re the one who told him we had vodka,” Nancy shrugs. “I was going to suggest seeing if Lovers’ Lake had cleared out.” She finds the name ridiculous, but she also can’t deny the allure. She’d never truly appreciated Jonathan’s tank of a car until the first time she discovered just how accommodating the backseat was.

“I didn’t realize that was an option.”

“Too late now,” Nancy says, with a smile off his disappointment. She’ll make it up to him.

Jonathan swings the trunk open, and Nancy is struck, again, by the sense of déjà vu. Only this time, instead of yanking out the gasoline, the fire extinguisher, preparing for battle, she’s looking for another kind of weapon. One to knock down the walls they’ve built.

Nancy retrieves the bottle from its blanket cushion and can’t hold back a wistful smile. She remembers the girl who took this from Bauman, the one whose only concern was taking down the lab, with making the people who did this to Barb—to all of them—pay.

(She wishes she could tell that girl, the girl she used to be, what the rest of that day held in store for her. Prepare her somehow. “You’re going to want to burn that lab to the ground, literally. There are monsters inside it. You’re going to stab the boy you slept with and might just love’s brother with a red hot poker because he’s trying to kill his mother. Also, Steve has children now. It’s a thing,” she’d say to herself.)

“At least it didn’t break.” Jonathan goes to grab it from her.

“Hang on.” Nancy holds him off, shouldering herself between him and the bottle, twisting it open. She pours a capful of vodka and holds it out to Jonathan, who laughs at her serious expression.

“I’m not letting us go in there unprepared,” she tells him.

“Do you really think this is going to be that bad? Because I’ll drive us out of here right now.”

Nancy shakes her head and hands him the cap. “Of course not. But, if I know Steve, he’s already one beer deep and singing along to Queen in the living room.” She nods toward the house, and the muffled music coming from within. “He thinks he’s got a great falsetto.”

Jonathan makes a face that’s a combination of impressed and horrified, and takes the shot.

“Sorry,” she says, pouring herself her own capful. “By the way.”

“For what?”

“I know you’re only here because of me.”

“That’s not true,” Jonathan insists.

“So, why then?” Nancy asks. “I know you said, whatever, back in the car. But, really.”

Jonathan turns to her, and shrugs. “He came back,” he says, simply.

“What, to ask us to hang out?”

“No.” He gives her a look. “To the house. To fight . . . monsters. Every time. And he doesn’t have a reason—not like we do.”

“That’s not true, he’s a father now,” Nancy says with a giggle.

Jonathan rolls his eyes at her.

“I know what you’re saying,” she tells him. “But just because he came back doesn’t mean we have to hang out with him if you don’t want to. Lots of people don’t stay friends with their exes, I don’t know why I thought I had to be different.”

“That’s not . . . no. This isn’t an I owe him thing,” Jonathan says, flustered. “I just, I wanted to . . . to have a normal Saturday night.”

Nancy stiffens, because it’s a little too close to _let’s be stupid teenagers_.

“No, what I’m saying,” he continues, seeing her reaction, “nothing about this— _us_ , all of us—is normal. We literally set a monster on fire. And then went back to our lives where we couldn’t talk about it. He knows what it’s like. We don’t have to . . . pretend.”

“We can trade war stories,” Nancy echoes.

Jonathan shrugs again. “Or we could just get drunk.”

“Sounds perfectly normal,” she says, and throws back the cap.

Jonathan laughs at the face she makes, the harsh bite of the alcohol still jarring, and then holds out his hand to her.

“You want to go in?”

Nancy looks around, just in case Steve has come out, but they’re hidden behind the open trunk.

“Yeah, but.” She pauses. “I want to do this first.”

Jonathan waits, confused.

She rises up onto her toes, slightly off-balance due to her occupied hands, pressing her lips gently to his. She’s about to come down, back to earth, there’s something she needs to tell him, but Jonathan catches her, pulling her closer, holding her steady, kissing her deeper. He tastes like vodka, and Nancy’s mind goes directly to the first time they did this. Her heart beats a little faster.

“You really aren’t the worst, you know,” Nancy murmurs, grinning against his mouth.

“Somehow it sounds better coming from you.” He pulls away, smiling back at her and Nancy feels suffused with it, the love, and she wonders why she can’t just say it.

(She’s thought it for so long, almost every time she sees him, for longer than she’d like to admit. Before the lab, before everything. English class. Catching glimpses of his car through her window on Sunday nights, Will climbing into the front seat. Not the words itself, but the feeling, it was always there.)

The music suddenly becomes less muffled and Nancy cranes her head to see Steve in silhouette in the doorway, light streaming out across the front steps.

“Is that Bowie?” Jonathan asks, his head cocked to the side, slamming the trunk lid down. Nancy doesn’t know if he expects her to answer, but, it is. She knows that much.

Steve leans out of the house, holding onto the doorframe, extending his beer toward them in a salute. “Do _you_ remember your President Nixon?” he shouts at them.

Jonathan blinks. Nancy can’t imagine what’s going through his head right now.

Nancy looks down at her dress, then over at Steve in his jeans. She and Jonathan are dressed for a completely different party than the one they’re attending. She remembers her first time here, changing shirts in the car, caring so much about how she came off. Now she’s just grateful she isn’t wearing heels. (For monster-related reasons.)

“Okay, seriously though, are you guys coming in or what?”

“One sec!” Nancy calls back. She pours one last shot, quickly swallowing the vodka, hissing through her teeth at the sting as she screws the cap back on. She nods at Jonathan. “We’re completely overdressed, but let’s go.”

They’re ten feet from the door when Nancy remembers. “I need you to promise me something,” she whispers to him, her head tilted down.

Jonathan looks at her, letting her go through first.

“If you hear the word bullshit come out of my mouth, even once . . . get me out of here immediately.”

 

 

 

Half an hour later, they’re all ensconced in the living room, Nancy perched on the loveseat that she’d always found to be a shade too firm to be comfortable, Jonathan installed in the armchair belonging to Steve’s father. Glasses filled almost to the brim, their second beers in their other hands.

“This is definitely overkill, Steve,” Nancy says, trying her hardest to take a sip without spilling.

“Or is it . . . exactly enough kill?” Steve asks, an ingratiating smile on his face.

“I’m with Steve.” Jonathan tilts his beer in Steve’s direction. “Exactly enough kill.”

“See?” Steve raises his eyebrows at her, taking his own sip. “Yikes, where’d you get this from?”

“Too strong for you?” Jonathan asks.

“I think this is too strong for stripping paint, Jesus.”

Nancy takes another sip, primly. _Who can’t handle their alcohol now_ , she thinks.

“Long story,” she replies. She catches Jonathan’s eye and gives him a small, private smile.

“Right,” Steve coughs, and Nancy turns her gaze back to find him with that same grin from before on his face, the one she’s starting to realize is covering for something.

He lifts his glass in a toast. “So, thanks for hanging out? And keeping me from going stir-crazy in this house? And here’s to, uh, present friends, and absent enemies, well, monsters . . . and uh, here’s to,” Steve pauses, searching for an ending, “Dart.”

“Sorry, what’s dart?” Jonathan asks.

“Dustin’s demodog. It’s dead. Might as well toast to it.”

“Oh my god, seriously?” Nancy can't believe what she's hearing. “He _named_ one?”

“The one you put in our fridge? Because I swear to god, everything tastes weird now.”

“Yeah,” Steve makes a face, “sorry about that, but no. Dart died in the tunnels. It uh, ate his cat, but it didn’t eat us, so, a good pet in the end. Kind of.”

Nancy feels a mixture of relief and pity for Dustin all at the same time. “As long as it’s dead,” she says, holding her glass up.

“I’ll drink to that.”

Their glasses clink, and Nancy feels it again, the reassurance of knowing that they were right to come here. (It feels like standing on the porch, following the lights, not knowing for sure what was coming, but sensing that they’d done what they needed to do. They’d stopped the monster. They can be okay.)

“So,” Steve says, sinking back into the couch, slinging an arm along the back. “I heard a nasty rumor, Nance.”

Nancy stops mid-gulp, unsure of where Steve’s going with this. She feels hot all over, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“I heard from _multiple_ sources . . . that you were seen having milkshakes with Keith McNamara.”

Nancy allows herself a moment of relief (although what she’s relieved about she isn’t quite sure), before the realization hits. “Oh, _fuck_.” She takes a drink, a long swallow, which goes down easier than any of her previous sips. “I made sure we weren’t seen! Jonathan stood guard!”

“You forget I don’t actually know most of the people we go to school with,” Jonathan points out. “Also, I was kind of reading the entire time."

Nancy glares at him.

“You’re telling me it’s true?”

Nancy groans. “I cannot believe this, I’m gonna murder Lucas.”

“What does Lucas have to do with this?” Steve asks, a note of protectiveness in his voice.

“He sold me out for _nothing_ ,” she growls. “And then he comes up to my room, where I am _trying_ to study—”

Jonathan coughs.

“—where I am planning on studying eventually,” Nancy concedes, because if Lucas had knocked maybe five minutes later, he would have gotten an eyeful. As it was she’d had to stall while Jonathan retrieved her sweater from where it had fallen under the bed.

“He promised a date with Nancy in exchange for some mysterious favor,” Jonathan explains.

“And because I am a good and kind person, I decided to not murder my current _least favorite_ of my brother’s friends, and so I got milkshakes with Keith McNamara.”

“Also, I’m pretty sure Lucas almost started crying when he was asking,” Jonathan adds.

“There is also that,” Nancy acknowledges. “They’re getting bigger every day, though. Pretty soon they’ll have to figure out their own lives.”

“They kind of have their shit together already, though?” Steve points out. “I mean, they kidnapped me and came up with that whole distract the monster plan on their own.”

Nancy takes a minute to consider what would have happened if that little group hadn’t kidnapped Steve, hadn’t accomplished what they’d set out to do. She reminds herself to hug Mike when she gets home, as much as he may hate it. “Yeah, and thank god it worked.”

“Well, the gate’s closed now. It’s over,” Steve reminds them. “Forever.”

“Do you really believe that?” Nancy asks, almost accusatory, the same way as when she’d asked Jonathan the same question on the hood of his car.

“No,” Jonathan says, grim. “It’s not over.” He takes a large swig, then breathes out. “But we know what we’re facing now. We can be prepared.”

Steve raises his glass to him. “You’re right. I have my bat—”

“It’s not your bat,” Jonathan states.

“—Nancy has her gun—”

“Also technically my gun.”

“—and you have . . . ”

“His wits,” Nancy supplies, grinning.

“I was going to say his fists, you’ve never been on the other side of them.” There’s a tense moment when Jonathan winces, and Nancy feels the awkwardness threatening to take hold again, but then Steve laughs. “But sure. His wits.”

Jonathan eyes both of them warily, and then gives them a wry smile. “So I’m going to, what, _talk_ the monster out of attacking us?”

The idea is so ridiculous that Nancy can’t help but let out a loud laugh, a drunk laugh, and then they’re all laughing and if Nancy laughs a little louder and longer out of relief, the boys don’t seem to notice.

 

 

 

An hour later, Nancy is feeling the pleasant warmth of the vodka; everything is funnier, lighter. The feeling she’d been trying to chase on Halloween, without the desperation. They’ve talked about stupid things, Dustin’s hair (“I _know_ that was your doing, Steve.”), and how Will has asked if he can learn to swim in Steve’s pool over the summer (“We only have that wading one, the one we used for the sensory deprivation tank,” Jonathan says, slightly embarrassed. “The sensory _what_ now?”), to how Billy Hargrove has been surprisingly tepid in his provocation of Steve as of late (“He knows I could kick his ass again.” “Steve, we saw your face, we know that didn’t happen.” “Yeah, didn’t you end up in the hospital?” “I could _kick_ his ass _again_.”).

“So, whose house are you ‘at’ tonight, Nance?” Steve asks, languid, slumped far enough down on the couch that he’s almost horizontal. “I’m gonna guess . . . Ally’s?”

“Oh, um,” Nancy says hesitantly, glancing over at him. “Jonathan’s, actually.”

Steve’s eyebrows rise so high Nancy loses them in his hair. “Seriously? You told. Your _mother_. The truth?”

“Well, technically no. I mean, we’re here now.”

“Our moms are friends,” Jonathan explains. “And my mom knows where we are, because—well, for obvious reasons.”

“I don’t think Mrs. Byers—Joyce,” she says, off Jonathan’s raised eyebrow on behalf of his mother’s insistence on her first name, “well, she wasn’t going to lie, you know? And my mom thinks he’s pretty trustworthy,” she concludes, smiling sideways at him.

“So, not like me, you’re saying,” Steve says, offended, tension stringing its way through his body.

Nancy stiffens. “Steve, that’s not it.”

“Yeah, okay.” He’s silent for a few seconds, then huffs out, sitting up, “I mean, I dunno, Jonathan, I don’t know if I’d trust you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jonathan asks, cautious.

“Let’s not forget the last time you were here.” There’s an hard edge to Steve’s voice and Nancy looks at him out of the corner of her eye. They’re treading close to dangerous territory, but Steve’s touched a nerve and Nancy can see Jonathan go rigid.

“Steve,” Nancy says, pleading. _Don’t go there_.

Steve deflates, his shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

Nancy breathes out.

“No, say it,” Jonathan insists.

Nancy freezes.

“No, Nancy’s right, that was before, before we went through all this shit together. I didn’t mean half that shit anyway.” 

Nancy conceals her sigh of relief. She’ll make a joke, and then everything will be fine again. Just like before.

“Oh, before, like the time you said, you weren’t surprised what happened to Will, cause all of us, we’re a bunch of screw-ups, right?” Jonathan’s standing now, something raw in his voice, and Nancy wonders how long he’s been holding that inside. She finds herself leaning forward, instinctively.

“Jesus,” Steve bites out, on his feet too, his voice rising, “I said I was sorry. I literally saved you from a monster, I helped buy your new goddamn camera, that doesn’t make up for the fact that I fucked up _one time_?”

“Oh, just the one time? How about when you literally abandoned Nancy at that party? She could barely walk on her own, I had to take her home myself because you fucking bailed. I’d say that’s pretty fucked up, Steve.”

Their voices are getting even louder and Nancy can’t stop her surging panic, but then their words click.

“Wait, what?” Nancy steps between them, confused. She hadn’t realized she’d stood up too. “At Tina’s? I thought . . . you told me Steve asked you to take me home.”

Steve lets out a sardonic laugh. “You really think I’d do that? Send the guy who’s in love with you after you? No, I bet—I _know_ he was just _waiting_ —”

“What? No, I was trying to _help_ —”

“You left me there?” Nancy’s still trying to wrap her mind around it, this complete rewriting of the history she thought she knew.

“Oh Jesus, Nancy, this was months ago, clearly you’re fine, we had to deal with much worse, what, four days later?”

“That’s not the _point_ , Steve. And you,” Nancy says, turning to Jonathan, “you lied to me? I can’t . . . what . . . why would you . . . ” Nancy shakes her head to clear it, because nothing makes sense, nothing is going the way she thought it would, and the pleasant feeling the vodka had given her is rapidly receding.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Nancy, like you didn’t lie to me for an entire _year_?”

Nancy whirls around to face Steve, stunned. “ _What_ are you talking about.”

“It’s _bullshit_ , Nancy.” Steve spits the word at her and Nancy flinches at the venom in his voice.

“That’s . . . ” Nancy trails off. She doesn’t know how to respond, all of her words lost.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Steve starts to pace again. “I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea.”

“Steve,” she pleads. “Come on, this has been great so far—”

“What, Nancy? You really think this is going well? You think we’re going to have lunch together on Monday and talk about what a great time we had Saturday night?”

“I don’t know!” Nancy cries. “Maybe? Not if you keep this up.”

“If _I_ keep this up? This isn’t on me, but sure, take his side.”

“There are no _sides_!”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. You know what, you guys can show yourselves out.” Steve raises his beer to them sarcastically, one last time, before storming away.

“He’s right, Nancy, we shouldn’t have come here, I knew this was going to be a disaster,” Jonathan half-shouts at Steve’s retreating form.

Nancy turns her head, stung. “You said . . . you said you wanted to. You said you wanted to be _normal_.”

“Yeah well, looks like that was a lie too.”

Nancy stares at him, the words hitting like a slap.

“Well, are you coming? I can’t—I need to not be here anymore,” Jonathan says, gritting his teeth.

“Jonathan, wait, we can’t just  _leave_ , you can’t _drive_ like this, you can’t disappear again. We need to fix this. This is _not_ what was supposed to happen!”

Jonathan nods at her, resigned, and shrugs. “Then fix it,” he says, his voice ragged, cold, and then he’s gone.

Nancy blinks helplessly.

A door slams, somewhere.

Nancy looks around the empty room, and says, very quietly, “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s drinking pump up song is [Young Americans](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScVi_L817ec) by the late, great David Bowie.


	3. you know in the end, i'll always be there

She goes after Steve first, because she knows where she’ll find him.

Steve’s father’s study is a stereotype of a room, dark paneled walls and leather furniture, a banker’s lamp on the desk casting long shadows across the floor, books on the shelves Nancy knows for a fact have never been read. The door is ajar, which means the slamming came from Jonathan. She pushes down her panic that she’s doing this wrong, that she’s messing everything up even further, and strides into the room.

“I thought I told you to leave, Nancy,” Steve says, his words clipped, sullen, his eyes determinedly focused anywhere but on her. He’s rooting around in a globe that looks like actually pulls back to reveal a bar, something Nancy didn’t realize existed outside of movies.

“I think we both know that’s not happening.”

Steve blinks at her, petulant. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“I don’t know,” she says simply.

“I guess that’s why you came and found me, huh. Just like old times.” His words dripping with sarcasm.

Nancy glares at him. “No, I came and found you because you’re predictable and this is where you always go when you’re pissed off.”

Steve holds her gaze for a long moment, but Nancy has Mike for a brother. He blinks first. “I’m not sorry,” he huffs.

He straightens, a half-filled glass in one hand, a bottle in the other, something brown this time. He considers the items he’s holding, sighs, and brusquely extends the hand holding the glass out toward Nancy, keeping the bottle for himself.

She takes the glass wordlessly.

Steve flops into an armchair, taking a long pull straight from the bottle, then lifts his eyes to the ceiling.

“What do you want, Nancy?”

“I want us to go back to when we weren’t screaming at each other.”

“Yeah, I think we both know that’s not happening,” he echoes.

Nancy sighs, sinking into the couch behind her, her dress slipping on the leather, kicking her feet up. Taking a large gulp from the glass she’s holding. Whiskey. She tries to keep her face from betraying her, but it’s so much worse than the vodka.

Steve hacks out a laugh. “Still can’t handle your alcohol.”

“Oh, and Mr. This Could Strip Paint thinks _I’m_ bad at drinking?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Maybe if you had something better to offer than,” Nancy cranes her neck so she can catch a glimpse of the label, “Johnnie Walker Blue?”

“You _really_ know nothing about liquor, huh Nance?”

“I know you can get middle-aged men to give you free bottles of it if you help them take down a government agency.”

“I know enough of the story to piece that together, but _maybe_ don’t say that in public.”

Nancy is surprised to realize she’s laughing, surprised that her fear, her anger, have almost disappeared in the last few seconds, replaced by something that feels comfortable. Something companionable. She glances over. Clearly Steve feels it too, because his gaze is warm. Bright.

She half-smiles at him, tentative. He looks back at her, the shadow of a grin he’d worn fading slowly.

“I shouldn’t have left you at Tina’s,” he finally says, looking down.

Nancy stays silent, sensing he has something more to say.

Steve raises his eyes to meet hers, and exhales. “And I guess I am sorry,” he says, only sounding slightly begrudging. “And not just for Tina’s.”

Nancy gives him a twist of a smile. “Me too.”

Steve purses his lips, nodding at her. He regards the bottle, takes a sip. Breathes in. “And . . . I shouldn’t have gone after Jonathan like that.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“I don’t know why I did. I guess I just felt . . . shitty. And drunk.”

“This was your idea,” she reminds him.

“Well, I also thought I could take on a bunch of monsters with nothing but raw meat and three middle schoolers, and honestly, I’m not sure which idea was worse.”

“The monsters,” Nancy tells him. “It’s always the monsters.”

“The night’s not over, you don’t know that for sure.”

“Well this,” she gestures between the two of them, “is,” she shrugs, unable to find a word to describe exactly whatever it is they are, “so far. But,” Nancy bites her lip.

Steve finishes her thought for her. “Jonathan.”

“You weren’t the only ones yelling at each other,” Nancy admits.

“Wait, and you came and found me first? I guess I should actually be flattered.”

“Steve.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve shrugs. He’s quiet for a long time, then looks up at the ceiling again. “You know, I gave you up, Nance.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Nancy says cautiously, watching him.

“I saw you. Tonight, at the dance. You had your hair up and you were smiling,” Steve says, almost wistful, “and all I could think was I had never seen you that happy. Not once, well, at least not for a year. And before this, before tonight, I thought you know, maybe there was a chance—but I realized when I saw you that anything I could try to say or do to get you back was . . . pointless. It was never gonna be you and me. So I gave you up.”

“Steve—” Nancy starts to say, but he cuts her off, looking back at her.

“It’s why I figured we could all hang out together, why I thought this could be okay. It wouldn’t be me and you, it would be me and you and him. Like we could be a thing, you know?”

She knows. “I think the word you’re looking for is _friends_.”

Steve shrugs. “I guess.” He breathes in, a preparation. “Why didn’t you go with him? Back then.” His voice carefully neutral.

Nancy looks down at her glass, hoping to find a better answer than the truth in the whiskey. “You were there. And he wasn’t.”

Steve makes a _hmph_ -ing sound.

Nancy rolls her eyes at him. “And don’t take that the way I know you’re going to take that. You _were_ there. And I’m glad you were.” She presses her lips together.

“But,” Steve says, leading.

Nancy tilts the glass, watching the liquid slip around. “It wasn’t enough. Just being there. I needed . . . more. As me. I needed something more than . . . you.” It sounds harsh, but she doesn’t mean it to be.

“And he’s that something?” Steve can’t quite keep it from sounding accusatory.

Nancy pauses, and muses to herself, “No.” It’s a realization for her too. “It was _everything_ , going the lab, to Bauman. Making sure those _people_ paid for what they did.”

“To Barb.”

“Barb. Will. To _all of us_.”

“Not me, I’m fine.”

Nancy gives him a look. “You drive around with a bat full of nails in the trunk of your car.”

“That’s . . . ” Steve trails off. “Okay, whatever.” He looks at Nancy sideways, a genuine grin appearing on his face. “He _really_ wants it back, doesn’t he.”

“I’m staying out of it,” Nancy says, putting her hands up.

“Yeah, okay.” Steve takes a tiny sip from the bottle, chuckling. The smile lingers for a second, then fades. “Are you happy?”

Nancy thinks back over the past month, the way she almost seems to thrum with happiness, every day. The weight that she’s been carrying around, not gone, but lighter. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, seriously. “Then I’m happy.”

“Are you?”

Steve puts that smile on his face again, but Nancy can see the cracks in it.

“Why do you do that?” she asks.

His grin slips.

“That,” she says, mimicking him. “You’re not fooling me.”

Steve’s eyes lose their focus as he stares somewhere in between them. “I dunno,” he says, slowly. “I guess I just figured if I pretended everything was normal, then it would be.”

“I tried that,” Nancy tells him. “It only ends up hurting people in the end. You, for instance.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no one for me to get drunk and scream at these days, so I think I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Nancy sits up straighter. “What do you think happened tonight?”

“Oh,” Steve says, realizing. “Shit.”

“You’re the one who said we were the only friends you had left,” Nancy reminds him. “So, you know, that’s not no one.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I didn’t—”

“Also,” Nancy says, talking over him, “that isn’t true, by the way, I see you every day at lunch, you’re at the same table we sat at. The . . . _cool_ table.”

Steve shrugs. “Those guys, they’re just a means to an end, you know? They don’t . . . get it. They weren’t there. You two know what it’s like.”

“Jonathan said the same thing about you,” Nancy tells him.

“Well that’s just . . . great,” Steve grits out, but it’s less sarcastic than Nancy would have expected.

“You can always sit with us, you know that, right? We can . . . talk about how great tonight was. But, actually mean it this time.”

“Yeah,” Steve muses. “Maybe.”

Nancy smiles to herself. “What happened to you, Steve?” she asks.

“Okay, now _I_ don’t know what _that_ means.”

“It’s _weird_ , you’ve changed. I didn’t see you for two days and when I got back to Hawkins, you were this whole different person. You hang out with _Dustin_ now. You think about eating lunch with, well, _us_. Not exactly King Steve material.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” Steve points out.

Nancy frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You literally forced the United States government to shut down the lab. You did that. The last time I saw you before that we were breaking up. How did you go from that to . . . that.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Nancy deflects.

“But Nance, you did something. Something important. I just herded wayward children around.”

“You know Mike likes you more than he likes me these days?” She glares over at him. “Every night it’s Steve this and Steve that.”

“What can I say,” he shrugs. “I’m an easy guy to love.”

Nancy winces at the loaded statement, even as Steve does the same.

“Sorry,” he says.

Nancy leans her head against the back of the couch, looking over at him. “I did, you know. Maybe not in the way you wanted. Or, even I wanted. But I did.”

Steve makes a face that looks halfway between a grimace and a smile. “Not like him, you’re saying.”

Nancy isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or that she just doesn’t want to lie, not about this, not even to Steve, but she shakes her head and says plainly, “No. Not like him.”

“You really know how to tell a guy _exactly_ what he wants to hear, you know that, Nance?” Steve lets out a small laugh, heavy with irony. He takes a long swallow, then looks up at her. “Does he know?”

“Do you actually want to talk about this?”

“I’m just curious.”

Nancy rolls her eyes at him, disbelieving, but admits, “I haven’t said it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Steve leans forward, toward her, resting his arms on his knees. “I want you to understand, and I think you will, every level I mean when I say—”

“Yeah, bullshit, I know.” Nancy’s gaze flickers away, settles on her feet. “You said he was in love with me.”

“He is. I seriously hope you knew that already.”

“No, I know,” she says quietly. She glances back.

Steve’s smile is strained, but it’s there.

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” she mutters into her glass.

“I know, it feels, kind of . . . grown-up, I guess.” Steve shakes his head. “Weird, right?”

“Everything about tonight is weird,” Nancy declares. Jonathan was right, she thinks.

Jonathan.

“I have to go.” Nancy stands, her head swimming as she pushes herself to her feet, thrusting the glass into Steve’s hands, ignoring his noises of protest as he juggles it with the bottle.

“This is the most expensive bottle of Scotch in the house, just so you know!” Steve calls after her. “Where are you even going?”

Nancy turns around, still walking. “Jonathan,” she states. Obviously.

“Oh yeah,” Steve laughs. “Forgot he was here.” He tilts the glass at her. “Good luck.”

“Yeah, you two are going to have to figure out your shit too.” Nancy raises her eyebrows. “So, you know, maybe stop drinking. Even if it is expensive.”

She leaves him there, looking alarmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember how I said this was going to be three chapters? Turns out I'm a huge liar.


	4. i promise you i will

Jonathan isn’t in the house, which only leaves one place left to check, a place that she avoids at all costs, if she can.

(But apparently, as tonight has shown, all bets are off.)

Nancy slides the glass patio door shut, turning to face the pool. She breathes out.

And sees Jonathan, closing the fence gate behind him, a resigned look on his face, which turns to shock when he sees her standing there.

Déjà vu.

They stare at each other.

She makes the first move, this time; the words springing to her lips, unbidden.

“I love you.”

“I get it,” Jonathan says, almost in the same breath, and then blinks at her, bewildered. “What?”

“That’s . . . not really the reaction I was hoping for,” Nancy admits with a smile, her head tilting to the side as she watches the emotions play over his face. Normally she’d be second guessing herself, but this feels right—she feels sure. About him, where his feelings lie. (As does Steve, apparently.)

“I thought you were going to break up with me,” Jonathan says, dumbfounded.

“No.”

Nancy waits.

“You love me.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t say anything in response.

“I should have told you sooner,” Nancy says quickly, after he continues to stare blankly at her, the words tripping over each other in her rush to get them out, “I don’t know why I didn’t, because I do, I have, for so—”

She’s cut off by Jonathan striding toward her and wrapping her in his arms, and _there_ it is.

He cups her face in his hands, kissing her firmly. Warmth floods her veins. “I thought,” he says, still holding onto her, “that was it, that I’d screwed everything up like always, like before . . . ”

“I’m still kind of mad at you,” Nancy tells him, tilting her head up toward him. “But. I do. Love you, that is.” She wrinkles her nose at him.

Jonathan kisses her then, again, strong and deep, and Nancy knows that this is his response, never one to say in words what he can express in actions. She doesn’t need to hear it. Him, here, with her. Holding her tight. It’s all she needs.

He eventually, reluctantly, pulls back, leaning his forehead against hers, smiling slightly, his eyes closed. She anchors herself against him, grabbing both of his hands in hers, breathing in unison. They stay like that, delaying the conversation they both know is coming.

“Where did you go?” she murmurs, once the silence has stretched on for too long.

Jonathan huffs out a laugh, straightening. “Nowhere. I had to . . . ” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t stay. But then the front door was locked, so . . . ” He looks around, taking in exactly where they are. “But after all that, I couldn’t just—”

“Leave me here?”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his expression turning serious. “For,” he exhales, “lots of things. Everything.”

Nancy blinks at him, twisting her mouth. “Yeah.” She looks down. “Why did you—” 

“I just—” Jonathan says at the same time, then stops, grimacing. He exhales. “I don’t know. How to do this.”

“What, fight?”

He shrugs.

“You never seemed to have a problem with it before,” Nancy says, after a pause.

He frowns at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looks at him sideways, her eyebrows raised. “Basically the first time we did anything together, you told me I was going to end up like my parents.”

“Yeah, but that was different,” he protests. “I didn’t . . . we weren’t—”

“And don’t forget when you yelled at me for _only waiting a month_ , which I’m not going to apologize for, especially now, _especially_ here.”

“Yeah, but—”

“If you’re going to start treating me differently now just because we’re _dating_ ,” she tells him, smiling slightly, “then that’s a completely different fight we’re going to have.”

Jonathan presses his lips together. “Yeah.” He breathes out, nodding. “Okay.” He twists his mouth at her.

“And next time, _tell me_ if you don’t want to do something. I tell you every time you listen to the same band too many times in a row.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offended. “It’s not that I didn’t want to do this—hang out, that is,” Jonathan continues, after a pause. “I wasn’t lying about Steve, it’s just . . . hard.” He shrugs, looking uncertain.

Nancy knows what he means, but only says in response, “It’s hard for all of us.”

“It’s different for you,” he tells her.

“No it’s not,” she replies, her shoulders tightening. “We lived through the same thing. And Will _came back_.”

Jonathan looks anguished. “No, not . . . it’s just, being here—”

“I’m here too. I’m standing _right here_.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I was . . . there, and you were,” he lifts his eyes, “there.”

“And Barb was _there_ ,” Nancy says, drawing his attention back to her. “Being here isn’t any easier for me.”

Jonathan’s eyes flick to hers. “I didn’t—I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“Yeah,” Nancy says, looking down. She exhales. When she lifts her gaze again, she finds Jonathan watching her, concern in his eyes, and she shrugs, saying nothing, because there’s nothing left to say.

He squeezes her hands tight.

Eventually, he goes on. “Also—about Halloween, I really was just—”

“No, I know—”

“—I wasn’t trying—”

“Jonathan.” Nancy tugs on their linked hands, pulling him closer. She tries to think of something to say to convey how much she feels, but instead she kisses him gently, following his lead, trying to express more than just gratitude, for more than just one moment, but for everything he’s become to her.

“But,” she says, as she rocks back onto her heels, “no more disappearing on me, okay? We’re in this together, you know that, right?”

“I know,” he replies, smiling hesitantly at her.

“Do you?” she asks, just to be sure.

Jonathan huffs out a laugh. “Well, maybe. Trust issues, remember?”

“Well I’m not retreating, okay? So, trust me. _Trust_ me.”

“I do,” he says, without hesitation. “You might be the only one, these days.”

“Your mom? Will?”

“Outside the family.”

“Steve?”

The name clearly throws him, but then a horrified look passes over his face as the realization hits. “Oh god.”

Nancy giggles.

“I told him you two need to figure out your shit, so. You should probably go find him.”

“Do we though?” Jonathan asks hopefully, but Nancy can tell even he doesn’t really believe it. “Like I said, we’re—” 

“You’re _not_ fine, although the way you two talk about each other I’m almost positive you’re better friends than you realize, even if you think you aren’t.”

He looks at her strangely. “You talked to Steve about me?”

“Maybe you’ll find out all the great things we said about you if you’d just _talk to him_.”

“This is . . . weird,” Jonathan echoes.

Nancy throws her hands up in exasperation. “This is ridiculous, I’m going to find him.”

“I don’t think you have to,” Jonathan says, his gaze fixed over her shoulder.

“In my defense,” she hears from behind her. “I wasn’t watching you guys for very long.”

Nancy turns to find Steve standing in the open door, a beer in each hand, looking sheepish. (Better than awkward, she thinks.)

“Hi,” he says, and then holds up one of his hands. “Beer?”

“I thought I told you to stop drinking,” Nancy calls to him.

“I did.” Steve walks toward them, swigging from the open can. “I stopped drinking whiskey. You can’t expect me to stop altogether, it’s Saturday night, and it’s not a party if you’re not drinking.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Jonathan ventures.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Steve tosses the other can in Jonathan’s direction, Jonathan catching it with the tips of his fingers. “Less educating me on parties, Byers, more chugging.”

“Where’s mine?” Nancy demands.

“Get it yourself,” Steve says dismissively, “I’m here to talk to your boyfriend.”

Nancy would be offended, but he’s doing exactly what she told him to do, so she settles for rolling her eyes and turning back to Jonathan, who raises his eyebrows at her, caught mid-sip.

“What?” he says, off her look. “You said the same thing to me.”

“Okay.” Nancy puts her hands up. “I’m going. Don’t kill each other.” She pauses, unsure if what she’s about to do will make the conversation more fraught, and then decides it doesn’t really matter (or that she might just not care), and presses a kiss to Jonathan’s cheek. “I mean it.”

She turns to go, but Jonathan catches her hand, his fingertips brushing her scar, pulling her into his side. She thinks he’s about to return the kiss, perhaps some kind of opening salvo in a way, but instead he says, quietly, “Hey.”

Nancy’s breath quickens.

“I love you,” he murmurs, almost into her hair, his face pressed against hers, low enough that Steve can’t hear. He glances up at her as he releases her back on her way, giving her a faint smile, and in this moment Nancy couldn’t love him more.

“You look happy,” Steve says out of the side of his mouth as they pass each other.

Nancy raises an eyebrow, shrugs at him. “Tonight’s going great, don’t you think?”

Steve’s laughter follows her inside.

 

 

Her resolve to not spy on them lasts about five minutes.

Turnabout is fair play, Nancy reasons to herself.

But mostly she’s just curious. (Although watching from Steve’s room is a line she can’t bring herself to cross.)

She settles for haunting the patio door, peeking her head out at moments she thinks she won’t be noticed, reading their conversation in their body language.

Arms crossed, legs stiff at first.

And then, a loosening, Jonathan’s shoulders beginning to unhunch as Steve gesticulates wildly, beer slopping onto the ground.

When Nancy looks out to find them on the patio furniture, Steve almost supine, Jonathan sitting on the edge of the chair opposite, she feels the knot in her stomach unclench, and she breathes out in wary relief.

In that moment, Jonathan turns his head toward the house and a beat too late, her reaction time dulled by the beer in her hand, Nancy jumps back into the shadows. She peers through the window on her other side, only to find both boys staring at the house. Jonathan says something, to which Steve laughs.

Nancy takes that as her cue.

 

As she walks up to them, Steve leans his head back against his pool chair, calling her name in the way all names are called when drunk, loud and brash.

She ignores him, sliding onto the lounge chair Jonathan is perched on, nudging him with her feet. “Hi,” she says. “So, you guys talked?”

Steve gives her a winning grin, no cracks this time. “I think I like him more than you now.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jonathan says, knocking his beer into Steve’s.

“I think this was a mistake, Jonathan, let’s get out of here,” Nancy laughs.

Steve sits up, making a placating gesture. “No way, Nance, we decided something, we need your input.”

She looks between them, Steve eagerly awaiting her response, to where Jonathan is suddenly studiously avoiding her gaze. “Decided, what exactly?”

“Next year, monster attack?” Steve says, nodding matter-of-factly, pointing at her. “Happens at your house.”

“Uh, excuse me?” Nancy asks, disbelieving. “Why my house?”

“Time to give Mrs. Byers a break, you know?”

Nancy knits her eyebrows together, frowning at Steve sideways. “I don’t think we get to decide where the monster from another dimension plans its attacks.”

“Okay, your house can be like . . . home base then.”

“What’s wrong with Jonathan’s house again?”

“It would be nice,” Jonathan says, lightly, still not looking at her, “to not have to take down miles of Christmas lights, or find a dead monster in my fridge next time, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Okay, fine,” Nancy allows, “but why does it have to be my house? What about your house?” she directs toward Steve.

“I think there’s been enough emotional trauma here.” Steve raises his eyebrows. “Also your mom would be fine with it.“

“Have you _met_ my mother?”

“Many times.”

“Your dad probably wouldn’t even notice,” Jonathan ventures.

Nancy points a finger at him. “First of all, he—okay you know what, you’re probably right.”

“Plus, half those little shits are going to be there at any given moment, anyway,” Steve adds. “It just makes sense.”

“You realize you’re calling _our brothers_ little shits, right?”

“They can be little shits sometimes, Jonathan,” Nancy points out.

Jonathan shakes his head. “Maybe yours.”

“What do you mean _yours_ , I’m an only child,” Steve says, frowning.

Jonathan gives him a look, one that says _obviously_. “Dustin. I’m talking about Dustin.”

“Don’t minimize what he’s doing, it’s more than just siblings,” Nancy admonishes him, then turns to Steve. “I think it’s kind of sweet, that you adopted a middle schooler when you haven’t even graduated yet.”

“Dustin is not my son,” Steve protests weakly.

“Okay, Steve,” Nancy says, giving him a knowing look, her tone colored with disbelief.

Steve shakes a finger at her. “Don’t patronize me, Nancy Wheeler. Back me up here, Jonathan.”

“Don’t patronize him, Nancy Wheeler,” Jonathan repeats, laughing.

“I knew I liked you,” Steve smiles. “I mean, you made my bat.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Again, it’s not your bat.”

“It’s _my_ bat,” Nancy declares. Both boys look at her, taken aback, but she plows on. “It has a W on the handle, it stands for Wheeler. It’s mine.”

“Shit.”

Steve sits up suddenly, launching himself off the chair, calling a “Hang on,” over his shoulder. He returns moments later, object of their conversation in hand, examining it closely.

“She’s right,” Steve says, devastated. Nancy almost feels sorry for him.

“Of course I’m right, it’s _mine_.”

“Well, here you go, then,” Steve sighs, extending the bat toward her.

Nancy waves him off. “Like you said, I have my gun. I’m willing to lend it out for now.”

Steve looks down, an expression of fondness on his face that doesn’t quite match up with the fact that the object of his affection is meant for inflicting the largest amount of damage to monsters as quickly as possible. He exhales, resigned, and then offers it to Jonathan.

“What do you think, shared custody?”

Jonathan blinks at him, clearly surprised. He looks at the bat, considering, for a long moment, and then sighs ruefully, pushing it back toward Steve. “You keep it. Mike and Will can handle themselves, and Dustin, he’ll need you prepared.”

Steve looks beyond gratified, and Nancy feels like they’ve crossed some kind of threshold, passed some kind of test.

“Thanks, man.” Steve extends his batless hand, grasping Jonathan’s shoulder, clearly affected.

Jonathan coughs, evidently uncomfortable with the depth of emotion Steve is experiencing in response to such a simple act. “But we’ll look out for him next year, of course.”

“Next year? Are we just gonna stop being friends or something?” Steve asks, reclining back onto his chair.

Nancy narrows her eyes at him, wary. “You’ll be _gone_ , you’ll be in _college_.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says, his expression fearful. “About that.”

Nancy inhales sharply. “Stephen _William_ Harrington—”

“Your middle name is William?” Jonathan interrupts.

“Yes?” Steve looks at him, confused.

“It’s just . . . that’s Will’s name,” Jonathan says, sounding offended.

“It’s mine too, he can’t _own_ a name.”

Nancy throws her hands in the air. “Can we get back to the point here? What does _oh yeah, about that_ mean?”

Steve grimaces. “I . . . might have not sent in my application?” he says tentatively, cowering under Nancy’s glare. “But I was _kind_ of _busy_ with that whole monsters attacking our town thing, remember?”

“But that was just for early admission,” Nancy thinks out loud. “There’s still a month until the regular application deadline . . . ”

“How does she know the deadlines already, you guys are juniors?” Steve asks Jonathan.

“Shut up, Steve,” Nancy says automatically, as Jonathan shrugs at him.

“C’mon, Nance, we all knew I wasn’t getting in anyway, there’s no point—”

Nancy gives him a murderous look. “Library. After school on Monday. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a better essay theme than _I won a basketball game_ now.”

“Oh,” Steve says, realizing, “yeah, I guess.”

“Although we’ll need to find some kind of analogy,” Nancy muses. “We’ll make it work.”

Jonathan is laughing silently at them, and Steve shoves him with his foot, making him spill his beer, which only makes him laugh harder.

“This isn’t funny, okay?” Steve insists.

“It’s kind of funny,” Jonathan tells him, still laughing.

“Remember, Byers, I kicked your ass once,” Steve says, but there’s no heat behind it. “I could do it again.”

“Okay, and once again, no you didn’t,” Jonathan says, shaking his head.

Nancy laughs too, despite herself. “You very clearly lost that fight, Steve.”

“Agree to disagree,” Steve shrugs.

Nancy rolls her eyes.

 

A silence descends around the pool, but while Nancy waits for it to become awkward, it stays companionable, the three of them sipping their beers and occasionally glancing at each other.

Steve breaks it first.

“So, is this what it’s going to be like now?”

“What?” Jonathan asks.

“This,” Steve shrugs. “Us. Being . . . friends.”

“Is that so bad?” Nancy replies, tilting her head so she can see Steve, who’s staring at his beer, contemplative.

He lifts his gaze to find her. “Works for me,” he says, simply.

“See Nance?” Jonathan says from where he’s leaning against her legs, “You fixed it, just like you said.”

Nancy shakes her head at him. “No.”

“No?”

“We can’t fix it,” Nancy says, thoughtful. “I was wrong, there’s nothing to fix. All we can do is move on from here. We can’t just pretend everything is normal, it’s not. _We’re_ not. But, maybe, since it’s us, we can make things . . . okay. Better.”

There’s a long pause, and then Steve declares, “That’s deep, Nance.”

The laughter that overtakes them this time lasts even longer than before.

“I feel like we need to make it official,” Jonathan says, languid, once the laughter subsides.

Steve sits up, alert. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“I’m just kidding—okay, what are you doing,” Jonathan says, as Steve jumps up, tugging on Jonathan’s arm.

“Up, get up,” Steve urges them.

Nancy gets to her feet reluctantly.

Steve grabs the bat, placing the end on the ground, sticking his hand out.

“Put your hands in.”

“This isn’t a sports game, Steve.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know, you really are Mike’s sister. Seriously, hands in.”

Grudgingly, they place their hands on top of where Steve’s lies, outstretched, on top of the bat.

“Ow, fuck, why is there a nail sticking out straight up, how bad are you at hammering, man?” Steve says, wincing.

“You should see Will’s,” Jonathan mutters.

“I think there’s a wound, hang on,” Steve says, yanking his hand out from underneath theirs, examining it worriedly. “Do you think monster guts are poisonous?”

“There’s still some vodka left,” Nancy offers.

“I think I’ve had enough for tonight,” Steve tells her. “Trying to be responsible. I have a son now, remember?”

Nancy glares at him. “To clean it, asshole. Are we doing this or what?”

“Okay.” Steve shakes his head, clearing it, placing his hand back on top of theirs. “Go team.”

“What team?” Jonathan asks, incredulous.

“Team . . . ”

“Monster hunters,” Nancy supplies.

Steve beams at them. “Perfect.”

Jonathan raises an eyebrow at her. “Monster hunters?”

“Monster hunters,” she declares, grinning at him.

Steve glances around their little circle, nodding. “Okay. Team Monster Hunters.”

Jonathan shakes his head, exasperated, but he’s smiling.

Nancy feels it as she looks at them, like she did back in the cabin, an exorcism of sorts, here, back where it all began. The overwhelming rightness. That the three of them, together, are stronger than anything that gets thrown their way, monster or no.

And it’s still a little awkward, and more than a little weird, but it’s also okay.

They can be okay.

“Go team,” she says.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All titles from When In Rome’s [The Promise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HI_xFQWiYU), which Steve Harrington dedicates on his late night college radio show to ‘the best monster hunters in Hawkins’ in 1988.


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